Servant's Loop
by Madrigal-in-training
Summary: A house elf has only one purpose: to serve a master. The hallmark of a good elf is to anticipate the Master's needs before the wizard himself, and bend any rules to achieve them. They're limited only by their Master's power. Harry Potter is a powerful wizard, and Kreacher lives to serve the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and its' Lord. Let the timeline be in redux. HPHGLL
1. End of War

_**A house elf has only one purpose in life, and that is to serve their master to the best of their capability. The hallmark of a good house elf is to anticipate his Master's needs and desires before the wizard himself, and bend any magical rules to achieve that. They are limited only by their Master's power. Harry Potter is a powerful wizard, and Kreacher lives to serve the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and its' new Lord. Let the timeline now be in redux. **_

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The first thing Kreacher did after the Final Battle of Hogwarts is pop over to the Gryffindor House tower. His young Master, Harry Potter, who was just as brave and noble as dear Master Regulus (and far better than that scoundrel, Sirius) was deeply asleep on his four-poster bed. Kreacher felt that this was only right. After all, Master Harry had just done the Wizarding World a great service by killing the Dark Lord.

This was not an opinion that many of the other fighters shared, as groups were already assembling to find and glorify their new hero. Kreacher disapproved. He knew that Master Harry had no wish to be disturbed right now, so- as all good elves would do- he took care of his Master's needs. First, he magically changed the dirtied robes into a pair of warm, flannel pajamas (with the family crest, of course) and levitated the comforter over him. Then, he asked the portrait of a rather large woman in pink if she would consent to keeping the accessway closed. Finally, he popped over to the Great Hall, in order to pass on orders of Master Harry's whereabouts.

Of Master Harry's friends, the blood traitor with the carrot hair was currently mourning with his family, and his mudblo- no, muggleborn friend was with him. Kreacher had no desire to speak with either. They were good friends to Master Harry, and he would tolerate their presence, but not at the expense of better choices.

Kreacher's large, protruding eyes scanned the hall critically, before they fell on a broad-shouldered young man with sandy blonde hair, sitting next to an elderly lady. The Longbottom heir! A decent, old family, and a good friend of his Master's. Yes, he would do. He popped over to them.

"Master Longbottom," Kreacher croaked out, his soft, scratchy voice catching the teenager's attention, "Youse is a friend of Master Harry?"

The boy's light hazel eyes fell on him with a startling amount of intensity once his Master's name was mentioned. He had been sitting in a secluded corner of the Hall, with only the elderly Longbottom matriarch around to hear his question. A bloodied sword of goblin-made silver, hilt studded with rubies, lay on his lap.

"You know Harry?" the boy asked, "Is he okay? Do you know where he is? Does he need any help?"

"Master Harry is fine," Kreacher answered, "Hes is sleeping now. Master is very tired."

"I'm glad he's okay then," the Longbottom heir smiled- a small, quick smile- and Kreacher knew that this new generation of Blacks would be allied with this man and his House. His Master chose a worthy friend. "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Neville Longbottom, and this is my grandmother Lady Augusta Longbottom."

He gestured to a small, thin old lady with dark purple robes, a red bag, and a pointed witch's hat with a stuffed vulture on top. Kreacher was fairly sure that it had been alive once. As she peered down at him with a strict expression on her face, the glass eyes of the vulture bobbed in tune to her head.

"I is Kreacher," the diminutive elf informed them, "Elf of Master Harry Potter. Hes is sleeping in the Gryffindor dorms, and doesn't wants to be woken up."

"I'll pass on the message to Professor McGonagall," Neville promised, "Thank you for telling me, Kreacher."

The house elf did not bother to reply before he popped out again. Master Harry would not be waking up for some time yet, so Kreacher would be checking up on the other members of the family. He went to Charms floor, at the second floor of the castle, where all the deceased bodies were brought to await their family's arrival. One of the body's was that of the shapeshifter traitor, the one who had been cast from the tree.

Kreacher paused as the years of training he had sent a wave of disgust over him, but rejected it just as quickly. Miss Tonks was a Black and a half-blood, and so was his Master. She would not have been accepted at the old House of Black, but this was no longer that old House. His new Lord was fond of her, and her lupine husband, and Kreacher would respect his wishes. And Black blood ran through her veins.

He saw that the body was uncovered and conjured a white sheet to place over her. After a second's thought, he added another sheet over the wolf-man. Though this one did not have the Black crest proudly emblazoned on it. Then he went to look for the shapeshifter's mother.

Andromeda Black was asleep in one of the makeshift hospitals in the Transfiguration room. A proud woman and a skilled healer, she had the strong, classical features of the Black family. They had become softer as she slept, magic exhausted from the onslaught of injuries the battle caused. Cradled to her chest was a sleeping babe with turquoise hair. The youngest member of the Black family.

Kreacher remembered Miss Andromeda. The eldest daughter of Master Orion's brother, Cygnus Black. She was quiet, respectful, and well-mannered, with a will of steel. Miss Andy did not have Miss Bella's sharp wit, or Miss Cissy's crafty nature, or even Master Sirius' clever tricks. She was careful, she was cunning, and she was admirably patient. Miss Andy played the obedient daughter so well, that no one knew otherwise until she had already escaped to elope with the muggleborn Tonks.

Mistress Walburga had said she was an awful, willful, nasty little girl with no care for her mother's poor heart. Master Orion had admitted, ruefully and with a detached sort of pride, that she was just as good a Slytherin as any Black. Master Sirius had been shocked and pleased and disapproving all at once, gleeful of her elopement and scathful of her cowardly display of rebellion.

Master Sirius would not have made a good Slytherin.

Kreacher remembered only that she was quiet, and polite, and well-mannered, and that her favorite dinner was beef burgundy and french onion soup. The elf thought that the Black family was getting so small. Kreacher left, and also thought that perhaps he could go to her later with a bowl of soup and a bottle for young Master Teddy. He would make it with Master Harry's corned beef sandwich and treacle tart.

The last Black he checked on was Miss Cissy. She had barricaded herself in an old Defense classroom- to leave now was to catch the eye of the Aurors stationed around Hogwarts. She was not alone. Her husband, the Malfoy Lord, was sleeping on a Transfigured bed, forehead creased with worry even as he rested. Her son was across the room, slumped on another bed, turned towards the wall with eyes glassy and open. Kreacher would have thought him dead but for the intermittent rise and fall of his chest. Could he not sleep? Did he dream of all the blood in his hands?

Miss Cissy was sitting next to him, fingers carding gently through his light blonde hair. Her thin frame and exhausted face did not hide the beauty of the quintessential grey-blue eyes of the Blacks. Alone of the three, she registered his presence and smoothly drew her wand. Miss Cissy pointed it towards him, despite the fact that Kreacher was using a veil of invisibility to cover himself.

Slowly, Kreacher released the magic. "Miss Cissy."

Her eyes became panicked for a second, and then recognized him. "Kreacher," she breathed, softly, eyes taking on a new light, "Oh Kreacher, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. I need your help. My family- we must-"

"I serve Master Harry," Kreacher said bluntly, eyes averting when her face suddenly fell.

"D-did he ask you to keep us here?" she asked, shakily. Taking his silence as a negative, she continued to implore him. "Then helping us would not disobey him. He owes me a favor. I've saved him from the Dark Lord. If my family goes out now, the Aurors will arrest us and- oh, my son! Please, Kreacher let me talk to your Master."

"Master is sleeping," Kreacher said.

"Can't you wake him up?" Narcissa asked, leaning forward with pleading eyes.

"Master is sleeping," Kreacher repeated, turning away, "I will bring you food."

He turned and popped away, not leaving quickly enough to avoid the soft, half-wrenched sob from Miss Cissy. Kreacher felt cold inside. He thought of the old Miss Cissy, the icy and arrogant socialite with a warm heart for her family and a kind smile for Kreacher, and thought of the trembling limbs and panicked eyes he left behind. He thought of her broken shell of a son, and the helplessness of her face as she smoothed down his blonde hair.

And Kreacher thought, once again, that the family was getting so small.


	2. Falling Through Time

Chapter Two

Kreacher had never seen Master Harry so distressed. Perhaps distressed was not the right word. He was listless instead, eyes growing dimmer with each body they carried out of the hall and each person that came up to him, teary and grateful, to thank him for killing the Dark Lord. He became more and more preoccupied with his thoughts, and slept fitfully, caught in nightmares where Kreacher couldn't reach him.

The old elf twisted his right ear sharply in displeasure. He could not help his Master!

Master Harry was being quiet, so very, very quiet, like old bad Master Sirius was shortly before he died. His eyes glimmered briefly in happiness as he held and fed the little Master, also like Master Sirius was with him. Kreacher was the one who was distressed. Had old Master Sirius walked to his death? Master Harry had- his bond flickered, and Kreacher knew- but he had come back. What if he didn't come back next time?

The children with the carrot hair, and the muggleborn-who-was-not-a-mudblood seemed to agree with Kreacher. They watched his Master with worried eyes, and the blonde girl with the will o'wisp magic of the Fae held on to his arm sleeve when they went to the trial. Miss Cissy and her son were pardoned- nothing could be done for Lord Malfoy- and Master Harry was a witness. The girl's body trembled in the proceeding, and Kreacher, sensing his Master's worry, looked at her with his magic. Miss Luna's body had been defiled, and he told this to Master, but discretely when no one could hear.

Master's voice was quiet when he asked Kreacher if he was sure. His eyes glowed- bright green, the color of death- and his magic coiled around him like a particularly hungry viper. Kreacher's bond thrummed as he nodded, and the old elf felt a little fear, even though he knew his Master's anger was not directed towards him. He had forgotten just how powerful Master Harry was.

Master Harry spent the next night talking to Miss Luna. Then he demanded the Dementor's Kiss for Mulciber and Avery. He had a cold smile on he watched. It was a Black smile.

It was a single moment of life though, in his listless Master. Kreacher was concerned by the lack of happiness in his Master's life, and did not even make a concerted effort to convince him to return to Grimmauld Place, the ancestral house of the Blacks. He was surprisingly pleased- and again, worried- when Master Harry chose to move there with little convincing. Kreacher was comforted by the fact that Miss Andy and the little Master would be living with them, at least for a while. Miss Andy's house was burned down in the course of the war, and she could tell just as quickly as he that Little Master was one of the sole things remaining that brought Master Harry any pleasure.

Kreacher could not deny that he was pleased to be serving a family again, after all of these months separated from his Master. Hogwarts' kitchens were a very welcoming place, and there was always work to be done, but Kreacher was an old elf and set in his ways. He liked to serve a proper family, and bustled around with an energy that belied his years to care for Masters Harry and Teddy, and Miss Andy.

Every month though, he would find the spare time to pop over to Shell Cottage and tidy up the grave of the young, mad elf, Dobby. He knew that Dobby was not properly bonded to his Master, like he, Kreacher, was, but the poor, crazy elf was loyal till the death to Master Harry. Kreacher would consider him to be a proud member of the House Black- though he would sadly be unable to have his head on the family mantle- and as the eldest, and currently only, elf in the household, it was his duty to ensure that Dobby's deathbed was cared for.

He mentioned this, offhand, Master Harry one day when baking Miss Andy's favorite scones, and was rewarded with a rare, approving smile from his Master.

Kreacher treasured those smiles, for rarely did Master Harry smile anymore. He became more and more withdrawn, entering a mindscape ravaged by war and his own tormented thoughts. One day, Kreacher felt his bond waver and knew that his worst fears were coming true.

He had been cooking a thin but nutritious soup for dinner, since his Master's appetite had started to leave him. It was being taken off the stove when Kreacher felt the magic, but he instantly abandoned the heavy cast iron pot, paying no mind to the boiling soup that had fallen in the area he had just popped away from. The old elf appeared in the Master's bedroom- not the Master Room, but the room where old Master lived in as a child, and where Master Harry slept now- and stumbled back in shock.

Master Harry was lying on the bed- _no! no! no!-_ with his wand clenched in his hand and- _oh, dear Merlin! no!-_ blood dripping down his throat. A thin slit across veins that even his own Magic could not heal. Kreacher rushed forward, knobby hands pressing against the cut, eyes bulged in horror, begging his Master to wait- _please wait_-

"S'ry Kr'cher," Harry gurgled, with a sad, sorrowful smile on his face, "J'st tired…"

Kreacher felt his bond slipping, and mentally grasped with all his strength, pulling it closer even as it started to fade… The old house elf closed his eyes, made a quiet apology to the brave, broken, kind man in front of him, and reaches deeper into his magic. A house elf usually only took a pittance of their Master's magic, hardly anything at all, but now Kreacher reached into Master Harry's core and _twisted_.

Master Harry screamed, and Kreacher cried and apologized, even as he _pulled_, and _twisted_, and _tore_...

And things went dark, and Master Harry's bond faded faster and faster- more magic pouring, _gushing out_ to Kreacher's unyielding hands, and-

-suddenly, the bond snapped into place.


	3. Young Master Harry

Chapter Three

Kreacher was a proud elf, but he was not so proud to say that he did not shed a few tears of happiness once he felt the fledgling magic of a young wizard encircle comfortingly around his own. It poked and prodded him for a second, in childlike curiosity at this new visitor, but once Kreacher opened his side of the bond fully to Master Harry- _now Young Master Harry! Ha! He would be able to feed him properly now!_\- it settled. Well, perhaps not _settle, _for Young Master had not the slow, lazy magic of other wizards, but the flickering, speeding, dizzying magic of a golden Snidget, but it certainly became content.

Kreacher also smirked in elvish glee, for his bond settled with _Young_ Master and not _Old_ Master, showing well and truly just who was the better wizard. And if Old Master Sirius' magic was dampened by the walls and wards of Azkaban, well that did not matter to Kreacher. The Dog was still beaten by a _child_.

A special one, of course. And if Master Harry's magic demanded Kreacher, then… yes, oh yes! Grimmauld Place was open to him, as was some of the Black magic. He was not the Lord- yet- but the House recognized its' Heir. A most worthy Heir, his Young Master was.

Kreacher's first actions upon his arrival to the past was to check the date. This proved to be a matter of no difficulty for one such as resourceful as he, for the filthy Muggles wrote it on every one of their papers. Kreacher would not steal a paper from wizards- he was a representative of the House of Black, and the House of Black did not steal something as menial as _newspapers_\- but swiping one from the poorly dressed Muggle child with a sack's worth was an easy task.

A simple calculation later, Kreacher had concluded that, as it was the 14th of July, his Most Beloved Master was soon to be turning 7 years old. And by the dawn of that auspicious day, Kreacher swore, he would have him safely ensconced at home, where he belonged.

His next action was to weave a spell of invisibility over his younger body- and Kreacher secretly admitted to taking glee over bones that did not creak and a back that did not ache- and pop over to his Master. Well more specifically, it was to pop several meters away from his Master, because he was an elf of the House of Black, and therefore, not stupid. This precaution proved wise a second later as his cautious tendrils of magic venturing outward proved the existence of a multitude of wards around a large, particularly unassuming home several feet ahead of him.

Hmm… notification, owl-redirection, health-monitoring, magical sensors (he was quick to nullify those ghastly wards), mild Confundus, and intent-based shields. They were all tied to a man whose magic Kreacher had felt often enough to recognize. Huh, so the old man with the impressively long beard actually did attempt to keep track of Young Master. He probably didn't deserve the elf's dark curses over his grave then. Kreacher's mistake.

Kreacher dampened the notification wards, so they would mistake his passive magic as the natural wisps all wizards released every day, and popped over to the house. He was disinterested in the absurdly thin woman and her equally absurd, but rather round progeny, and passed them by. It was only when he appeared at the edge of the garden, that he saw a thin little boy in baggy clothes, with untidy dark hair and cracked lens focusing on a bed of gardenias.

Young Master! Oh, he was so scrawny, and dressed in a completely inappropriate manner. And why was he doing such menial labor? It was a very hot day, and judging from the sweltering look on the child's face, he had been out here for rather long.

Kreacher scowled, but did not step away from his camouflage. Instead, he snapped his fingers and a burst of cool, refreshing wind suddenly swept into the garden.

Harry's head lifted up at the sudden wind, but he smiled and closed his eyes to savour it briefly. Taking advantage of his Master's inattention, Kreacher placed a small spell on his clothing. Now, he would feel comfortably cool for the rest of his time outside. Though, Master Harry would attribute the feeling to the sporadic bursts of wind Kreacher would be sure to send his way.

Kreacher indulged in several other small spells as the day went on. When Master Harry had to go in for a shower, he cast a mild confundus on the stick-like woman to ensure that she didn't bang on the door and force him to leave before he could take a proper wash. When he was told to move heavy objects, they suddenly became lighter. When he had to vacuum and wash the floors, they mysteriously became wiped of dust. When the fat child attempted to bully him, he suddenly found the other boy slower than he normally was and managed to escape easily.

And of course, his clothes were slowly shrinking all day. By the time, dinner was over and Harry had finished washing the dishes, his clothes were just two sizes too large. Not that Harry cared at that point. Aunt Petunia had unexpectedly burned the outside of the chicken, and had to cook another one, with him being given the castoff. Despite the charred skin, it was wonderfully roasted and seasoned on the inside, and Harry ate it with great relish.

Kreacher smirked. His Young Master had always enjoyed his cooking to the redhaired woman.

Soon after, it was time for bed, and Young Master Harry scuttled off to a small, dark… cupboard? His Young Master _slept in a cupboard_? This was… this was… beyond unacceptable for any wizard child! Much less for the Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black! Kreacher's bulbous eyes narrowed dangerously, and his old fingers twitched. The walrus man and his bony wife would have an unpleasant digestion tonight.

Master Harry did not seem nearly as bothered by this grave insult as he should, in that he matter-of-factly waked into his cupboard and curled up in a thin cot. Almost by habit, Kreacher enchanted the cot to be softer and the blanket warmer for the rest of the night.

The sudden comfort of his bed made the Young Master stiffen, and press his small body closer to the back of the cupboard. Wary eyes watched the closed door in suspicion, and he gave a start as the bulb above his cot dimly flickered to life. He opened his mouth- perhaps to scream- but snapped it shut a second later, and stared at the bulb in horror. It would not have matter either way. Kreacher had warded the cupboard silent.

Stepped deliberately in front of Young Master's sight, Kreacher slowly peeled his invisibility away.

Harry's eyes widened at the mottled green skin, the bald head, the bulbous, snout-like nose, the bloodshot eyes, the batlike ears and bone thin body. Kreacher opted not to smile. Old Master Harry had once admitted that he had a fierce smile, and Kreacher took pride in that. But it would only scare Young Master.

"What… _what are you_?" Harry asked in a hushed whisper, fear and fascination warring in his eyes.

Kreacher dipped into a small bow, and looked him directly in his bright green eyes.

"I is Kreacher, Young Master," he replied, "And I is here to save you."

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	4. Bedtime Stories

Chapter Three

"Kreacher? Your a, um, sorry, you're a kreacher?" the young boy asked, looking confused.

"No, Young Master," Kreacher explained patiently, "I is _called _Kreacher. I is a House Elf."

"An elf?" Harry muttered, disoriented, "But elves don't exi-" he paused, and looked at the other creature, sheepishly, "Er, well, clearly you _exist_… um, Kreacher, sir."

"I is only Kreacher," he corrected, gently, "A mere servant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."

"Oh," the boy repeated dumbly, feeling terribly inadequate. This- er, being- served the nobility. "What are you doing here?"

"I is here to serve you, Young Master," Kreacher said, stuffing his chest out in pride, "You is the Heir to the Black Family."

Harry stared at him. "No, I'm sorry Kreacher, but you made some kind of mistake," he whispered quickly, "I'm no heir. I'm just Harry."

Kreacher snorted. His Young Master was so silly.

"You is the Master of the Black Family," the elf replied firmly, "And a wizard. I is Kreacher, and I is your elf."

"I'm no wizard, Kreacher," the young child argued, laughing a little, "Wizards don't exist!"

Normally, Harry would be horribly awkward and scared at this moment, but he had just had a truly wonderful day, and he was comfortably full, and, with the soft hush of the night, this all felt like some grand adventure really. A most pleasant if off dream. And there was something about this being that compelled Harry to trust him, despite his scary face and creepy eyes.

The elf put his hands on his hips and fixed the boy with a stern eye. "Now don't be saying that, Young Master," he scolded, "Oh, for Young Master not to know of magic, what a shame, what a shame. Young Master will be a very powerful wizard some day, oh yes, he will. Kreacher has seen it!"

The boy watched with wary eyes as the odd creature suddenly turned and jumped off the cot, though there was little room to maneuver in the cupboard. The spindly little fingers of this Kreacher fellow scoured the wooden floorboards quickly, until they circled around a wrinkled scrap of paper and lifted it up to show Harry. The boy watched, stunned, as the forgotten piece of rubbish suddenly turned to a shard of glass, which slowly transformed until a beautiful glass flower rested against the elf's wrinkled palm.

The boy with the untidy dark hair accepted the offered trinket in wonder. Against the flat of his palm, he felt the tiny lily flower, curved petals as smooth as silk and clear as water. His heartbeat thudded against his chest, as everything Harry had ever thought- ever been told- shattered below this sudden bauble.

"A lily," he mouthed, another hand raising to let his fingers slide over the glass, "So pretty. Magic… is real?"

"Yes," Kreacher affirmed, inwardly smiling at the wonder in his Young Master's voice (he still did not want to scare the boy by showing it outwardly). Young Master was so adorable.

"But I've never done anything like this," Harry said softly, looking stricken. "Kreacher, I'm sorry, but you've mistaken me for-"

"Harry James Potter, son of James Charles Potter and Lily Marie Potter nee Evans," Kreacher listed off slyly, suddenly catching the full extent of his Young Master's attention.

Harry's piercing green eyes- no less potent for its' youth- fastened upon him, with such unerring hunger that Kreacher knew he had been denied the most basic of information on his parents. His breath was almost taken away. His Master had such marvelous eyes.

"You knew my parents?" Harry stated, or perhaps demanded, with the intensity that would one day be evident to every person he spoke with.

"I only knew of Lady Lily, Young Master, but I have met Master James before," Kreacher replied.

Old Master Sirius had invited that uncouth, loud ruffian over on several occasions. He was the only one of the boy's friends that Master Orion had allowed, being both a Pureblood and a distant relative of the Blacks from Lady Dorea, though Mistress Walburga found him distasteful. Kreacher had agreed, but he couldn't be all bad since he was the sire of one as great as Master Harry.

...He was beginning to sound suspiciously similar to that annoying mad elf, Dobby.

"What were they like? Do you have any pictures? Can you tell me anything?" the questions stumbled out. "Their middle names were Charles and Marie? And my Dad's name was James? That's my middle name!"

"You is named after your father, Young Master," Kreacher said, lifting himself up to sit in the bed next to the excited boy. "And he is named after his own father, Charles Potter. That would be your grandfather."

"My grandfather…" Harry repeated, a smile spreading across his face, "I- do you… perhaps have any pictures?"

"I have a few of your grandparents and your father in my possession," the elf replied, "I will bring them to you tomorrow night, if you would like?"

"Yes, please!" Harry cried, blinking his eyes rapidly, "Please do- I've never seen one before. Thank you, Kreacher."

"It is my pleasure, Master," he was very proud as he answered, "And I believe I have one of your mother as well. I shall also bring it."

"What do you know of my parents, Kreacher?" Harry looked at him imploringly.

"They is a very good witch and wizard, Young Master," Kreacher reported. His Master's mother was a Mudbl- Muggleborn, but Master Harry credited her for saving his life as a child, so she could be nothing less than a truly gifted witch.

"Wizards…" Harry muttered, voice breaking, "But they died in a car crash. How could they have died if they had magic to protect them?"

"Your family lied to you, Master," the elf's voice was gentle, "They did not die in a car crash. They were very brave and strong wizards, and… I'm sorry to say, Master, but they were killed."

"Killed?" Harry's voice trembled, and tears were openly falling down the child's voice at this point. Kreacher hesitated for a mere second, before reaching his bony arms around the small child and giving him a comforting hug. Harry did not pull away, and pressed his face closer against Kreacher's pillowcase. The child's small body made it easy for Kreacher to reach his arms around him fully and gently pat his back.

"I will tell you a story," Kreacher decided, moving away and sitting down. "It takes place in a secret world, hidden in plain sight, where there are witches and wizards who could create beautiful and unexpected wonders of magic. This world was home to many different kinds of creatures, such as elves, mermaids, dragons, and centaurs, and, of course, witches and wizards. And in this world, was born a special little boy named Harry…"

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	5. Changing Habits

Chapter Five

Kreacher averted his eyes as he snipped the strands of magic that hung the Old Mistress' painting to the wall. He could tell that Mistress Walburga was screaming at him- seemingly both shocked and furious- but Kreacher did not waver from his course. The House must be readied for the Young Master, and unfortunately, his beloved Mistress would never welcome the Halfblood to her home. He placed her gently in the family vault, next to the picture of a bemused Master Orion, and then, after briefly thanking the goblin who brought him there, he popped back to home.

The wall still looked so empty though. Perhaps Kreacher could place a picture of Young Master's parents there?

It was a good idea, though the elf would have to be sneaky about it. Young Master treasured the few pictures of his parents Kreacher could offer him (mostly the rascal James, though the old elf also found a faded shot of the woman, Lily, at the background of one of Old Master's prank photos), and would fight tooth and nail to give them to Kreacher. He would have to create a temporary replica to calm Master Harry, at least until he could get a permanent replica created at Gringotts.

Young Master was in slightly better health, since Kreacher was careful to feed him the nutrient-laced meals Old Master required after escaping Azkaban. The boy was a little confused at to why Kreacher refused to allow him even a scrap of bread from _that woman_, but accepted it as one of the old elf's quirks.

Kreacher was glad. It was bad enough he had to share with the red headed woman before- _no longer! Ha!_\- but Kreacher would be damned before he let a _Muggle _take his honor away. Until Young Master went off to Hogwarts, he would eat Kreacher's meals, and Kreacher's alone!

The elf paused in his careful sweeping of Young Master's future room, the one that belonged to the beloved Master Regulus, may his magic spiral among the stars of Avalon forevermore, to cackle. Yes, Kreacher would not have his rightful honor as the Head Elf of the House Black stolen away. He dared _anyone_ to try.

His newest honor was to introduce the Young Master to the Magical Realm. Kreacher felt that he was doing a more than adequate job every night, as Young Master fell asleep to tales of Hogwarts and dragons and Quidditch and, quite naturally, the House Black. The first few nights were a little rough, as Kreacher had to explain the death of the Dark Lord, Old Master's false imprisonment, and his Young Master's destiny (Kreacher did not know the exact words of the prophecy, but he certainly did not shy away from telling the child of the drunken Seer and the fickle nature of prophecies. Young Master was not impressed).

Kreacher had also, somewhat reluctantly, told the Young Master about the Dark Lord's wraith. He had regretted it almost instantly when he saw the fear envelop the young child's face, but Kreacher knew that this was necessary. Young Master needed to know the danger that the Dark Lord posed to him. He had also assured his beloved Master that he would be protected within the magical fortress that was the Black home. No one had breached the infamous wards of Grimmauld Place, and should the unthinkable ever happen, Kreacher would lay down his life for the Black Heir.

He had been a little discomfited when the crying child hugged him in response, but Kreacher could bear it.

As the Young Master was only a child though, and being thrown deep-end into a pool of knowledge about a world he had previously believed to be fantasy, he managed to put it out of his mind. Harry had been very cheerful in the past week, which the disgusting Muggles could have seen had they not been occupied with more _pressing_ issues. House elves were vengeful creatures.

Every night the child would eagerly rush to his cupboard, under his aunt's suspicious eyes, and nestle under the bed in anticipation for Kreacher. The House elf had regaled him with the story of Caelum and Rigis Black, two cousins who had once stolen into the dragon reserves of Peru and stolen a baby Hebridean Black. They raised the dragon in the forest of Black Castle before it became large enough to sell to the Ministry. The Hebridean Black was greatly valued for the flakiness of its' scales and the rare potions that could be derived from the fallen scraps, so the Ministry awarded the family a plot of land that would later be turned into a dueling stage for the International European Games. In fact, it was on that very stage that Aten Black, the great-grandnephew of Caelum, won England its' first International Dueling Title, with his self-created Dark spell, _Mors Osculum_

The Young Master loved such stories of valour and power, especially as Kreacher was quick to point out the family connection between Caelum and Harry (Aten's daughter was Dorea Black, Harry's grandmother). He was also becoming more determined to be special himself.

Kreacher had been dismayed when he saw the sheer lack of confidence his Master had in himself. Just Harry? Preposterous! His Master was hardly "just Harry". No Black was ever 'just' anything, not even the Old Master Mutt, who had at least managed to achieve the pinnacle of Transfiguration at fifteen years of age and escape the infamous prison of Azkaban. And Master Harry was special even among the Blacks, so Kreacher made sure to assure him of that everyday. He would not have his Master be the same absurdly humble whipping bag as before.

The old elf reckoned it was working, since Master Harry was standing up more proudly the next day, and even shyly requesting a book from the Black library. Kreacher approved of this attitude wholeheartedly, and gave the Young Master a beginner's history text just the other day.

Kreacher was glad that his Young Master was more carefree, although he himself was not. Kreacher had not told the Young Master about the Dark Lord's soul jars, as the Master's older self had once referred to them. In truth, Kreacher did not know as much about the soul jars as he would wish. He knew that Master Regulus had given his life to secure one, as can only be expected from one as noble and brave as he, but that was the only one he was sure of.

Kreacher had secured the golden locket in one of the House's dark artifacts containers. He was loathe to leave it undestroyed, but he had not the capability for it now. One day though, his beloved Master Regulus would be avenged.

Of the others, he was aware that the Dark Lord's familiar was one such abomination, and that another was hidden in Hogwarts. He was unsure of the exact location, but knew that it resided in the Come and Go room. Perhaps Kreacher would just burn the entire room to the ground. Yes, Kreacher would do that one day. It was a simple, efficient plan.

He was also aware that the elder Master Harry had broken into Gringotts. It was probable that a soul jar resided within then, in the vault of a powerful Death Eater family, like the Malfoys, or the Notts, or the… Blacks? No, Master Regulus had already been given a soul jar. Perhaps poor mad Lady Bella received it? This bared further thinking.

And though Kreacher was loathe to acknowledge it, he knew of at least one final Horcrux.

His beloved Young Master Harry.


	6. Gathering Allies

Chapter Six

Kreacher knew that the Dark One's parasitic soul had only left his Old Master Harry when the young man had heroically walked through the Veil. He knew this, for Kreacher's soul still shuddered at the abrupt unravelling of his bond, that had snapped without will or warning, and far too quickly for Kreacher to intervene. It had left a scar on his mind that Kreacher doubted could ever heal, and for this among many other reasons, the old elf refused to take that path.

The only rule he would stand by is that Young Master Harry would not be harmed. Kreacher's poor, shriveled, blackened, old heart could not take it.

Having determined this, he attempted to consider another method for disposing of those foul artifacts, but realized that his own powers would fail him. House elves were tricky creatures when it came to the realm of magic. There were two common branches of Wizarding magic that were exercised in daily life: Transfigurations and Charms. The former Art would change the nature of an object or being, while the latter would imbue additional characteristics to the subject. A Warming Charm cast on a wizard, for example, would imbue the concept of heat to the surrounding air, and then anchor that altered substance to the wizard in question.

However, these alterations would be finite, and dependent on the strength and duration of magic running through the subject. Some may last for a long time- years, decades, centuries even- but at some point, the magic will fade, and the integrity of the original subject would be restored. By this knowledge, and at its most simplest form, the Arts of Alchemy and Enchantment were to turn the finite pieces into a permanent masterworks, for Transfiguration and Charms respectively.

House elf magic worked at the crossroads between Alchemy and Enchantment, but was objectively more powerful than either field. The former could permanently change a log into a cushion, and the latter could permanently impose the characteristics of a cushion onto the log, but a house elf managed both. Kreacher was capable of imbuing the concept of 'softness' onto the log, and _changing the very idea of what a log would be. _

Had a wizard cast a replicator spell at an enchanted log, the copied object would not have the same enchantment impressed upon it. If a wizard replicated a log changed by the magicks of a house elf, then the copied object would be just as soft as a cushion, for the house elf had changed the very essence of a subject.

This was a great and terrible power, but by the nature of its possibilities, restricted by the Laws of Magic. Kreacher was limited to using his power- first in the betterment of the Young Master, and followingly, by Mother Magic's protection of the soul, the mind, and the body of her subjects. He could not conjure food or noble metals, his mind was protected by virtue of his Master's compassion, and the essence of any subject that he may change, could just as easily be undone by another of his kind.

Thus, despite his great power, Kreacher could not find a reasonable solution to his Master's dilemma.

At least, he could not find a solution by himself, but perhaps others may be able to help him? Kreacher immediately disregarded the old man with the impressively long beard, or any of his minions. The Headmaster had known that the Dark One survived for well over six years now, weakened by the sacrifice of Young Master's Mudb- _Muggleborn_\- mother, but had yet to handle the problem. Incompetent, he was. Utterly, and thoroughly incompetent.

Not to mention, that he was also a believer of the drunken woman's prophecy, which spoke of gullibility on top of said incompetence. Kreacher would even wager a month's worth of chores that he was to blame for Young Master's abuse.

Kreacher would exact the proper revenge on Young Master's behalf. Sure, he could not _prove_ the old man's guilt, but, if not in this matter, he had probably wronged the House Black in some other way.

Kreacher then turned his attention to his Young Master's non-human allies, for his friends were young, and also made in poor taste (Kreacher knew that he could no longer call the bushy girl 'Mudblood', but that didn't mean he had to like her). The goblin had proved traitorous, the winged-horse creature lacked intelligence, the man-horse creature would not help him… perhaps the bird? Kreacher also considered his fellow soldier in the war for his Young Master's health and happiness, before shaking his head. Dobby's excessive enthusiasm to serve Harry Potter was laudable, but he was still bound to Miss Cissy's foolish husband.

Kreacher sighed. His poor Master had such few allies to turn to in his time of need. This was likely the old man's fault as well somehow.

Phoenixes were prideful, independent beings of fire and air, so despite the bird's questionable loyalties, Kreacher popped outside the Headmaster's Office. Extending his ears, the old elf determined that the old man was absent (fortunately for him for Kreacher was a vengeful elf), and snapped his fingers. When he appeared inside of the room, all of the portraits were in stasis, and not a single alarm had been triggered. It was a hallmark of the human reliance and blind trust of house elves that no wards had been placed to prevent Kreacher's entry, and no magic cast to counteract his own.

Despite the full absence of any sort of defense whatsoever, and the firebird that peered at him with benevolent curiosity, Kreacher waited. A moment later, another pop signaled an elf of much younger age, who nodded respectfully in acknowledgement of Kreacher's experience and wisdom.

"Haves youse businesses for Master Dumbles?" The elf inquired.

Kreacher raised a single eyebrow of condescension, and the other elf squirmed in his place.

"Not giving yours namesies first?" Kreacher chided, "Youse is shaming yours Master. I is Kreacher, Head Elf of House Black. And youse?"

"Tippy, sir," the elf, Tippy, squeaked, shamefully, "I is the cleaning elf on duty, sir."

Kreacher nodded. "I is needing more importants elf, Tippy. Bringing Maelis here."

The elf nodded, and popped away, trusting Kreacher to abide by the social conventions and uphold the honor of his Family. That trust was well-placed for Kreacher had stood by patiently, until an almost as old elflein in a neatly laundered pillowcase appeared. Kreacher promptly offered her a bow, much to the other's surprise.

Maelis was an elflein that Kreacher had immense respect for, from his years working alongside the Hogwarts elves. She had become the first Head Elflein in Hogwarts, a leader among elfleins in an elf's world. Before he had worked under her firm guidance, Kreacher had believed in the view that an elflein had no place outside of the kitchens, the house rooms, or the caring of elflings. Certainly it was the prevalent view his early years, and while Kreacher was not one to stick too closely to convention, certain social mores had to be upheld.

Maelis had been thoroughly unimpressed by that attitude, and had refused to set him to work until he learned to still his tongue. Kreacher had done so- begrudgingly- but after several months of watching her subtly undermine the Dark One's forces, the old elf was surprised to find his silent resentment turn into genuine admiration. She was truly a credit to Hogwarts Castle.

(That Maelis had been quite terrifying as she cheerfully hacked a Death Eater to pieces did not hurt her case).

"Hellos Kreacher of House Black," Maelis said politely, not offering a curtsy in return, "What businesses youse Master have here?"

"I needs to speak with the Phoenixes," Kreacher replied, "My Masters has problems that the bearded one's bird can fix. Kreacher comes here to tell youse that."

The dark-green skinned being nodded in understanding. "Only if the Fawksies says okay, and I needs to stay here with youse."

Kreacher folded his stiffened joints and glowered back. Regardless of his admiration, he was not a sloppy, wet-behind-the-ears elfling that needed to be supervised! "Kreacher will not break anything!"

"Maelis understands, but the Headmaster Sir doesn't like strangers in his office-room," the elflein folded her own arms, "Maelis won't tell anyones what youse say."

"Even youse Master?" Kreacher asked suspiciously.

"Maelis doesn't have a Master," she swiftly corrected, "Maelis serves Lady Hoggywarts. If youse is nots hurting Hoggywarts, then Maelis won't say anything to Headmaster Sir. But if Headmaster Sir asks, then I has to answer."

Kreacher accepted the compromise begrudgingly. "Wills Fawksies talk to Kreacher?"

A red-feathered head cocked itself to the side, and ancient, black eyes seemed to peer into the shriveled elf's soul. Kreacher was _almost_ intimidated by the restrained power radiating from that gaze, but he stood firm and bared his teeth back. He was the proud Head Elf of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black! He had served the man who forced a Dark Lord into mortality! He was the servant of a boy who conquered death!

Then a happy, sing-song chirp burst into existence, and Kreacher cringed. Good Merlin, was that piercing sound painful to his sensitive hearing!

Still he had received an acceptance- probably- and the determined elf forged on. "I needs to talk to Fawksies about the bad snake-man. Firsties, I needs to know that youse won't tell anyone."

A small pause, and then another affirmative chirp. "Kreacher is the servant of the brave and noble Master Regulus, who founds that the bad snake-man cannot dies. Master Regulus knews it was because of an evil locket, and he dies to gets the evil locket outs of the caves…"

Speaking concisely, Kreacher quickly shared all of the information that he knew, excepting for the fact that he had travelled back to this time. Instead he told them of how brave Master Regulus knew there was more than one soul jar, and hypothesized that one of them had been hidden in Hogwarts. Judging from the way Maelis' eyes narrowed at that knews, Kreacher felt that he had gained a ready ally for his Young Master's side.

Once he had croaked his way through it all, Kreacher fell silent and waited for the majestic bird to reply. He did not expect for Fawkes' to take a few hops forward, nudge a tattered hat off the shelf, and catch it on his head. Much to the male elf's bemusement, a wide tear then formed on the brim of the black cloth.

"Ah, it's been so long since I could properly converse with someone!" A cheerful, musical voice echoed out of the brim, "Albert normally can't stand sharing his voice, but this time it was important enough for him to give in."

Kreacher blinked. "And youse are?"

"Gwyneth Gryffindor at your service!" The fire-gold phoenix cocked his (her?) head again, and Kreacher thought it would fall off his (her?) head. "You may prefer to call me Fawkes instead, though honestly… that man and his naming abilities! Ah, but I digress. You would like my counsel for your problem, yes?"

Kreacher dumbly nodded.

"Well, my dear time-travelling elf," Gwyneth kindly ignored the gaping Kreacher, "The solution is imminently simple. We must engage in a little arson, jailbreak, and untimely death!"

x


End file.
